


5 times Steve wasn't heavy to carry and the one time he was

by itsmylifekay



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 5 Things, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, So many tags, plus one, the character death is the very last part and you can skip it if you want, ya'll get it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:28:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2568224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmylifekay/pseuds/itsmylifekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times in Bucky's life that Steve isn't hard to carry, and the one time he is. Snapshots from before, during, and after the films. The character death can be avoided, just don't read the last bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 times Steve wasn't heavy to carry and the one time he was

Their first meeting comes by way of bruised knuckles and scraped knees. An introduction through harsh shoves and sharp words exchanged in the schoolyard, Steve kicking and fighting like a feral cat, giving it all he’s got against a group of older boys. Bucky steps in when he hears the words the boys are using, knows his mama told him those words were bad. So he adds his own tiny fists to the mix, jumps into the fray and manages only a few solid punches before he’s drug back by his collar by an irate teacher.

“James Barnes,” she says, lips in a firm line and lipstick bright as an apple. “What in the world has gotten into you?”

“They was being mean,” he defends, pointing at the older boys. “They was saying bad words an hitting on that little guy, an ever’body knows it ain’t right to fight dirty.”

“It’s not right to fight at all.” She corrects, but she does turn to the older boys and give them a firm talking to, instructs them to march straight to the office so the principle can deal with them.

But Bucky isn’t really paying much attention to all that, he’s more worried with how the little guy’s still on the ground, still hasn’t gotten back up from that last hit to the chest. Bucky stoops down beside him. “Hey,” he whispers-- in that too-loud way children have. “You alright?”

There’s not much of a response, just a faint kind of wheezing and the boy’s eyes opening to glare at him half-heartedly. (Bucky figures he doesn’t know who he’s looking at, probably thinks he’s one of the mean older boys.) Either way, it’s pretty obvious he needs to see the nurse, so he scoops the boy into his arms the way he does his sisters and marvels at the lightness and ease with which he can do it.

“Oh my,” the teacher frets, rushing over to them as soon as she sees the state the boy’s in. “Is he alright?”

“Don’t know,” Bucky says honestly, shrugging his shoulders a bit. “But I figure I’d take him to see the nurse.”

“Are you sure? Steve’s in your same grade, James. Isn’t he a bit heavy for you?”

Bucky shakes his head. “No, ma’am. He ain’t heavy.”

She stoops down and runs a hand over Steve’s forehead, smooths a thumb across his cheekbone then squeezes his shoulder. “Alright then, thank you James. You’re a good boy for helping. Now hurry along, and no more fighting!”

Bucky doesn’t need to be told twice about getting going, because all of a sudden he’s found he doesn’t like how light Steve is in his arms, doesn’t like how frail he seems, almost like the baby his mama had shown him a few years before that Bucky’d had to hold real special so it didn’t break.

But by the time they get to the nurse, Steve’s breathing better and he even manages to walk into the room on his own two feet, gets up onto the cot without too much help.

And when the nurse is done patching him up and has bustled off to check on a student who’d come in with the flu, he turns to Bucky and says, “Don’t gotta stand there, you can go.”

“Figured I’d stay,” Bucky says.

The boy’s (Steve’s) eyes narrow. “Don’t need your help or nothing like that.”

Bucky feels like maybe that’s a lie, but also that maybe he’s not supposed to call him out on it. (His dad always said one of the most important things to a man was his pride.)

“Just wanted to know what you were fighting for, besides the bad words.”

There’s a long moment of silence, stretched out as he’s watched with calculating eyes, too grown-up seeming for a guy so small.

“I don’t like bullies.” Steve finally says.

Bucky grins, a tooth missing in the center and a smudge of dirt on his chin as he decides he likes this kid, likes the fire in his strangely thin chest. “Well, I don’t like ‘em neither.”

And they’re both completely unaware of the journey they’ve just begun.

(~=~)

Bucky’s lungs are heaving, burning, as he sprints with all he’s worth towards the corner store. Just gonna go for a walk, Steve had said, just gonna clear his head. Well, apparently it hadn’t all gone to plan because not even fifteen minutes later little Emily from a few doors down was standing in their doorway tear streaked and muddy yelling about how they were ‘ _hurtin’ him, hurtin’ him real bad’._

His lungs feel like they’re about to explode and a small part of him thinks to ask Steve if this is what asthma is like, if this is how he feels during one of his fits, but that’s not important right now. What’s important is making sure that fucking punk lives long enough for Bucky to throttle him himself.

Finally, he’s skidding into the back alley of the tailor’s, one arm already pulled back and ready to swing. But there’s no one there, just a stained old dumpster and some cigarette butts. Bucky feels his heart drop in his chest. Because _where else could they be?_ And oh god, what if he’s too late? Steve sure as hell isn’t made of glass but anyone can die if you punch ‘em hard enough, and with Steve’s lungs as shitty as they are...a good slam to the ribs would be enough to--

There’s a soft groan from a few feet away and Bucky darts forward, gets down on his knees right there in the dirt because _shit_ Steve’s just lying there propped up against the brick wall looking like hell. “Steve,” he says, reaching forward and grasping the other boy’s shoulder, giving it a little shake because _please god, oh please, open your eyes, please_. “Steve?”

“Buck?” Steve manages, eyelids fluttering open just a sliver, going shut again against all the swelling.

“Yeah, it’s me you punk.” Bucky laughs, (but only to hide the fear in his voice, nothing about this is funny.) “What’d you do this time, huh?”

“They were picking on Emily, took her doll.” Steve rasps, then he smiles, blood in his teeth and split lip stretching to the point of painful. “But I got it back, let her run.”

Bucky wants to ask why Steve didn’t run with her, didn’t come get him and at least not try to take them all on alone. But he knows the answer by now. Knows that Steve is as much a little shit as he is a terror and that if there’s one thing he’ll never do it’s back down from a fight.

Unfortunately, that means Bucky’s left trying to make sure Steve doesn’t get himself killed with his recklessness, a task that’s been proving next to impossible with how easily Steve jumps into fights.

“Yeah,” Bucky says wryly. “She ran straight to my house. About gave my mom a heart attack she was crying so loud.”

Steve at least has the grace to flinch at that, but otherwise remains slumped into the wall, head lolling to the side to rest against the grimy metal of the dumpster. Which, Bucky furrows his brow and leans forward to get a closer look at the state Steve’s in, letting out a curse when he sees.

“Steve!” he hisses. “Your arm…” (It’s hanging awkwardly, not quite at the right angle.)

Steve just kind of grunts at him, mumbles something along the lines of how it’s not a big deal and Bucky just needs to stop fussing over everything, but Bucky’s not having any of it.

“Can you stand?” He asks, already pretty sure he knows the answer but at least giving Steve the opportunity because the stubborn ass will no doubt insist on trying.

He makes it as far as sitting forward before letting out a muffled groan and sinking back against the wall. There’s some muttering about giving him a few minutes that Bucky ignores and then Bucky’s getting an arm behind his back, inching him forward and picking him up before Steve has time to protest. But Steve doesn’t complain so much as he lets out a strangled shout, shaking and going horribly pale in Bucky’s arms before passing out from the pain.

Bucky swallows back bile and guilt, then gets Steve into a better position, tries to get it so his wacky arm is more or less supported on his chest. And then he walks fast, as fast as he can without jarring Steve too badly, getting to the Rogers’ front door in a haze of _Steve, Steve, Steve, he’s still breathing, he just passed out, pretend he’s sleeping, just get him home,_ before Mrs. Rogers opens the door with a smile that quickly turns into a gasp.

“What happened?” She asks, ushering them inside and heading straight for the kitchen, pulls things out of cabinets while Bucky sets Steve on the table, supports him against his chest.

“Got in a fight,” Bucky says, putting one hand on Steve’s elbow to keep his arm from dangling all strange. “Some boys roughed him up real bad.”

Mrs. Rogers comes over to where they are and immediately starts looking Steve over, a sharp frown on her face when she sees Steve’s arm.

Turns out Steve’s shoulder got dislocated, needed to be reset, a horrible kind of process Bucky doesn’t ever have to watch again, let alone be close enough to feel the _movement_ in Steve’s shoulder as it happens. He’s just glad Steve stayed unconscious for the whole thing.

And he’s still unconscious when Bucky picks him up and carries him to the bedroom, laying him out under the covers that Mrs. Rogers pulls back.

“I’m sorry, Bucky,” Mrs. Rogers says, watching the both of them with a sad look in her eyes. “You must be getting tired-”

“No, ma’am.” Bucky interrupts quietly, settling Steve into bed gently as he can. “He’s not heavy at all.” When he steps back and meets Mrs. Rogers eyes, she’s got this tiny little smile on her face, worried and grateful and scared for the both of them in ways Bucky will never be able to understand.

“You’re a good boy, Bucky Barnes.” She says, “And you’re a great friend.”

(~=~)

“Stop, Buck.” Steve wheezes, fingers grasping weakly at the collar of Bucky’s shirt so as not to lose his balance. “Just leave it.”

Bucky ignores him. It’s been a few days since Steve’s been out of bed, and he’s lucid enough now that he can handle getting moved to the couch, maybe even a shower, while Bucky changes out the soiled sheets. They’re sweaty and grimy and fever ruined, long overdue for a wash, but Steve’s been all but unconscious the last few days so it’s not like Bucky had many options.

The couch is sagging and old and terrible for Steve’s back, but he’ll only be there for a little while. Still, Bucky makes sure to tuck a blanket around him and stuff a portion of it under the small of Steve’s back where the worst of his pain usually is. Then he heads back to strip the bed, carrying the bundle of covers by Steve to head out the door.

“Bucky,” Steve calls weakly. “You don-”

“I know, Steve.” Bucky sighs. “I know I don’t gotta do anything. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna do it.” He gives Steve a tight smile then slips out the door before he can get any more complaints, moving fast because he knows if he leaves Steve alone for too long the idiot will try to get up. (And Bucky has not spent the last week at Steve’s bedside just for him to break an arm falling over.)

And this process had been so, so much easier when it wasn’t just him. When it wasn’t just him and Steve in this little keyhole of an apartment, living together since about a month after Mrs. Rogers passed away. Because then, there had been multiple eyes, multiple pairs of hands. If Mrs. Rogers needed to run to the kitchen for more water, Bucky could support Steve’s back as he got sick in the chamber pot. If Bucky went out to scrounge up work to pay for Steve’s medicine after Mrs. Rogers came home from her shift, at least there was always someone there beside him.

On about the third day, when Steve had been so sick Bucky thought for sure he wasn’t going to make the night, he had nearly taken the man up in his arms and ran for his mother’s house, but Steve had woken with the jostle and told Bucky under no uncertain terms was he to burden his family that way. And no matter how much Bucky tried to reassure him, tell him that was a stupid way to think, Steve had gotten so worked up about it he’d about killed himself with a coughing fit. Bucky’s been too scared to bring it up ever since, not with Steve seemingly on the mend. (He’ll have a talk with Steve about it later, when they’re both well enough to get into a long-winded argument.)

He knocks on the door to Mrs. McCarthy’s apartment down the hall, waits just a beat before the elderly woman opens the door. “Oh James,” she tuts knowingly. “Give it here, I’ll have it done by the morning.”

“You’re an angel.” Bucky says, leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek before handing over the sheets. “I’d stay, but Steve…”

Mrs. McCarthy merely holds up a hand and shakes her head. “Trust me, I know how that boy is. You get back to him before he goes and makes himself worse.”

And Bucky needs no more persuading, shoots back down the hall and thanks the Mother Mary that they’ve got neighbors like her who help take some of the easier tasks that come with Steve being sick. Mrs. McCarthy does the laundry, Mrs. Brandt comes over to cook if it gets real bad, and Jonathan Swift goes to the stores with whatever money Bucky can scrape up and picks up whatever Steve’s particular ailment needs. (The pharmacist tends to sell them things underpriced as well, ever since Steve got himself a pair of matching shiners standing up for his boy in front of the bar.)

So yeah, Bucky’s not in this entirely alone. And he’s no stranger to the process since he helped out when Steve was sick. But it’s the first time Steve’s been quite so ill, an entire week already and still hardly any signs of him improving. And Steve is still as weak as a newborn, needing Bucky to pick him up and carry him everywhere, take care of the chamber pot underneath the bed and wipe him down with washcloths every morning and night.

Bucky doesn’t mind the work, but Steve hates it. And with it going on for so long now...he’s starting to fight Bucky every step of the way.

“Alright, punk.” Bucky says, back in the apartment and trying to be light about the way he swoops down and gets Steve against his chest. “Let’s see if you can’t keep some water down. But first, you should try to take a leak, need to see if you’re hydrated at all.”

Steve glares at him the entire way to the bedroom, glares at him as he pulls out the chamber pot, and glares at him as Bucky helps him work down his pants and stand over the metal bowl. It’s honestly not bad, nothing Bucky hasn’t seen before obviously, but he knows that it chafes Steve something awful so he tries to be real obvious about looking away, holding Steve as gently as possible and babbling on about a baseball game Steve had missed during the worst of the fever.

He keeps babbling right up until Steve’s in his arms again and they’re in the kitchen, Bucky going quiet so he can concentrate on grabbing a glass without dropping Steve on the floor.

He succeeds.

But Steve takes the silence as an opportunity to say, “You shouldn’t have to do this, Buck.”

And shit it’s like a broken record.

“Don’t hafta do anything, pal.” Bucky says, getting some water in the glass and heading back for the couch. “Now stop talking before you wreck your throat even more.”

As usual, Steve takes as well to directions as oil to water. “I’m serious, Bucky. You shouldn’t have to be doing this, shouldn’t have to be carrying me around like a deadweight.”

Bucky doesn’t miss the double meaning and he lets out a sigh before burying his face in the side of Steve’s neck, pressing a feather-soft kiss there before mumbling, “Hate to break it to ya, but you’re not exactly breaking my back, punk.” But then he pulls away, gets serious because he knows this is something Steve needs to hear. And hopefully understand.  “You’re not heavy, not at all.”

And Bucky will never, ever, get tired of carrying him.

(~=~)

It’s moments like these Bucky misses the ninety-five pound punk he left back in Brooklyn. For numerous reasons.

1- A ninety-five pound Steve was much easier to carry than his two hundred pound counterpart.

2- The ninety-five pound punk would’ve been fucking _back in Brooklyn_ and wouldn’t have gotten himself into this mess in the first place.

...and who is Bucky kidding, Steve would’ve found plenty of shit to get into even back in New York. _Had_ found something, evidently, considering the super-juiced propaganda tank the government had managed to turn him into. At least here, Bucky can watch his back, protect him from threats both in and out of country.

Still, it doesn’t change the fact that Bucky is running as fast as he can through a fucking _minefield_ with two-hundred plus pounds of passed out Captain America on his back.

“Steve,” he shouts to deaf ears, over the din of machine gun fire and not-so-distant explosions. “Just because you’re over here...doesn’t mean you get to take any of the stupid back. I didn’t win the war, so you shouldn’t be allowed to do anything stupid. But you already broke that rule once. I thought Captain America wasn’t supposed to break the rules?”

The worst part is that he can’t even be properly angry because the only reason Steve’s a deadweight is because he got knocked out saving all of their asses. So sure, he was an idiot for willingly getting severely concussed for their sake, but it _was_ for their sake… and that really doesn’t change the fact that Bucky’s upset about it. Upset, and guilty, and just generally terrible feeling.

And judging by the looks on the faces of the other Howling Commandos when he finally skids into their meeting spot, they feel the same way.

They start the trek back to their pick up point and it’s mostly quiet, shaking off the nerves and adrenaline of battle with a few dry jokes and mundane chatter. Bucky’s been carrying Steve for a couple hours now and he knows he should be tired but he’s not, and he’s not willing to think about the reason behind that. Not now.

The other commandos only ask once if he wants any help carrying Steve. Bucky just shakes his head. “He’s not heavy.” And he knows they don’t believe him but they don’t push it either and for that he’s eternally grateful.

When they finally break for the night Bucky settles Steve on the ground and cradles his head against his own before trying to gently prod him awake, the other men gathering around to watch as he groans back into alertness.

“You’re a stupid, reckless punk.” Bucky greets him.

Steve just gets this cracked grin on his lips and shakes his head, hair brushing against Bucky’s jaw until Bucky finally breaks and buries his nose in it. (The rest of them are used to it by now, had caught on far sooner than he or Steve had ever expected.)

“I’ve got another condition for you, Cap.” Dugan says, breaking the silence. Steve slowly turns his head to look at him and Dugan meets his eyes before deadpanning.  “Never do that again.”

And they all laugh, sure, but underneath it all is the big ugly truth that they’re all scared shitless for each other, scared they’ll have to watch another man die.

Bucky tugs Steve minutely closer, prays to God and Mrs. Rogers and anyone else up there who’ll listen, _protect him, for the love of everything that’s good in this world, protect Steve Rogers, I’ll die a thousand times in his place if that’s what you want. But don’t you touch a hair on his head._

(~=~)

His mission. His mission. His mission.

_protect him, for the love of everything that’s good in this world, protect..._

His head hurts, full of buzzing words and images that break through everything he’s ever known like rocks through glass. Everything he’s ever known...in this life? On this world? Nothing makes sense, but

_I’ll die a thousand times in his place if that’s what you want_ _._

He dives into the water, doesn’t know why. Finish the mission: confirm the kill. Finish the mission: save- _don’t you touch a hair on his head._

It’s icy and murky and there’s debris falling everywhere but he locates the man, grips him by the straps on his suit and tugs him to the surface. His feet slip on the sludgy bottom of the river, but the man never leaves his grip, carried easily in the current of the water and the strength of his arm. The shore scrapes under his boots.

_He’s not heavy,_ his mind supplies. And it’s the truth. He’s not. Just a broken twig in his grasp but... _protect protect protect._

He doesn’t know why but he waits until he sees a breath pass by those strangely familiar pink lips. His chest loosens, his brow furrows, and he understands nothing but he knows he’s done well. Mission complete. For now. A part of him says he’s nowhere near done.

But it’s all he can do for now, so he turns and walks away. There’s nothing he can do, nothing he can protect. So he lets his mind run over the familiar words... _protect him, for the love of everything that’s good in this world, protect Steve Rogers, I’ll die a thousand times in his place if that’s what you want. But don’t you touch a hair on his head._

He remembers battles and wars and men overseas, those words whispered from his lips into soft blond hair and bloodstained skin. Fragile bones and broken breaths. A rickety bed and threadbare sheets.

The same mantra over and over.

So he says it now. Just once. Surprised at how easily it falls from his mouth, foreign words in a foreign tongue. He doesn’t understand, but he will, decides this with a determination he hasn’t felt in ages.

He failed one mission, but has kept another. A longer mission, a more important mission, one he plans to see through til...

“...the end of the line,” he murmurs out loud, side aching and knife heavy in his hand. “Til the end of the line, pal.”

(~=~)

The world is ash and smoke and soot and rubble and Bucky doesn’t think he can breathe. Not anymore. Not with the way his hands and arms and chest are stained bright red, Steve bleeding out against him in an unstoppable march of time and fate.

“Buck,” Steve finally manages to say, words wet and painful. “Don’t watch this.”

And of course Steve is still trying to be the hero, still trying to save Bucky from seeing any more death, from feeling the last remnants of life escape past a person’s lips. But it’s not going to happen. Not this time.

“No,” Bucky says, bit out between barely held back tears. “Don’t you fucking- Don't tell me to leave you, you punk. It’s til the end of the line, that was the deal. Don’t tell me to back out now.”

“Buck,” Steve sighs, obviously not surprised by the answer and for once in his life too tired to fight it. His hand clenches into the front of Bucky’s uniform and a familiar smile pushes past his lips, bloodstained and sure in a way that has Bucky’s heart beating too fast. Because Steve’s not running away, not even from death, staying as stubborn and pure as the first day they’d met.

Bucky brushes a hand through dirty, sweaty hair, rubs a thumb across smeared skin, then watches as Steve’s eyes start to dull, watches blood and breath and life escape back into the world. And as he stands, Steve an unmoving weight in his arms, as he stands and screams at the sky, it’s the first time he’s felt Steve’s weight straining at his muscles. The first time he’s felt the burn of it in his very core.

And as he stumbles back through wreckage and destruction, towards the solemn and stricken faces of the rest of Steve’s team, it’s the first time Steve’s ever been heavy to carry. Ever been nearly too much to bear.

“Til the end of the line…” he mutters,  “Guess we made it, pal.”

 

  
  


 


End file.
